


A Lousy Handful of Earth

by Alien_Ariel



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/M, alcohol use, lots of flashbacks, not your typical sole survivor, the songs I mention are important so I link to them, typical Fallout warnings, updates when I can, we got backstory for days, writing this in my spare time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alien_Ariel/pseuds/Alien_Ariel
Summary: I had never been this tan before Doomsday.Yes, it was true I had come from a vault. Carla no doubt imagined me struggling through a giant cog-like vault door, choking on the irradiated fog that clings to the Commonwealth autumn, blinking bleary-eyed at the new blistered aesthetics of the world I’d once known as clean and gilded, melted skyscrapers half-standing in Boston’s broken skyline like apologetic monuments to the Old World.It was a common fantasy held by wastelanders: the naïve vaultee being birthed into a cruel world they didn’t comprehend.Naïve is just another word for stupid, though. And I wasn’t stupid.I did have the tendency to go off on tangents, but that was more a reflection of my short attention span than my intelligence. Such was the case now, where Carla was glowering back at me for a solid minute, the last wavering notes of “Johnny Guitar” floating away on the pleasant winds that had distracted me from whatever it was Carla has said. I then spent the next few seconds recalling our conversation.Oh, right. She had insulted me.-----------------------Petra isn't your typical Sole Survivor, most importantly because she isn't Vault 111's only living member.





	1. Play It Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, thanks for checking out my fic! I'm posting this story mostly from personal interest, since Petra is my favorite OC at the moment. Writing is her is such a joy, but I've been struggling with the plot on this work. For now, I've got a solid six chapters which work pretty well as their own standalone piece, even if I did originally intend for it to be a longer work. For now, I'll be uploading whenever I've got the chance to type chapters out, as my MHA fic is my current priority. Further chapters may come if I find some inspiration for the plot.
> 
> I reference A LOT of music in this fic. Music is pretty important to the Fallout universe anyway, but it's a huge part of Petra's character, so I really recommend listening to the songs I mention (I'll be adding links you can follow to make it easier).
> 
> And, as always, if you enjoyed, I do really appreciate comments! Feedback of any kind is welcome. :)

**A Lousy Handful of Earth**

_Chapter 1- Play It Again_

_"Johnny Guitar" by Peggy Lee_  

 

_[Play the guitar; play it again, my Johnny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2VTulxEDig) _

“Carla no.”

_Maybe you’re cold, but you’re so warm inside_

“Carla, turn it off.”

_I was always a fool for my Johnny_

_For the one they call Johnny Guitar_

“Carla seriously.”

“What?” Trashman Carla screeched in that abrupt way she had, her northeast accent drawing out the vowel sound to the point of sounding like a crying seagull.

Radgull.

Whatever.

Peggy Lee continued to croon mournfully in the background, coming from the well cared-for PipBoy ironically laying on the haphazard pile of scrap being pulled along by our pack brahmin Millie.

I threw a truly scornful look Carla’s way, flicking my overly long sun-bleached ponytail over my shoulder for added dramatics.

“You know _whaaat_ ,” I replied, squawking similarly to my travelling companion only because I wished to annoy her. It didn’t work. Carla’s baseline was already mild irritation and she deviated from that for neither man nor beast. Nor, in this case, for her second-in-command: Petra Delaney.

“This is a great song! Leave it to some know-nothing vault dweller not to appreciate Peggy Lee,” Carla scoffed, swiveling her head to glance back at me with the kind of scorn more appropriate for a child than a 28-year-old. It didn’t matter that a decade had passed since I’d joined Carla’s ranks: I was perpetually 18 in her eyes.

“It’s not the song and you know it,” I whined, continuing along after Millie, who had passed me by on the crumbling asphalt road with little more than a soft grunt and even softer nudge from the leftmost of her two heads. The other continued to stare forward into middle-distance, chewing a stalk of razorgrain contemplatively.

_There was never a man like my Johnny_

“I know, it’s cause it reminds you of someone who dumped you,” Carla’s near-scream of a voice carried back to me on the easy Commonwealth breeze. It was late spring; summer was just a week or two around the corner. This time of year, the brown, blasted hellscape of apocalyptic Boston could actually be viewed as seasonal. Summers were unusually warm following the bombs dropping (once the whole Nuclear Winter phase had passed, of course), and the sun beat down, scorching the Earth.

I had never been this tan before Doomsday.

Yes, it was true I had come from a vault. Carla no doubt imagined me struggling through a giant cog-like vault door, choking on the irradiated fog that clings to the Commonwealth autumn, blinking bleary-eyed at the new blistered aesthetics of the world I’d once known as clean and gilded, melted skyscrapers half-standing in Boston’s broken skyline like apologetic monuments to the Old World.

It was a common fantasy held by wastelanders: the naïve vaultee being birthed into a cruel world they didn’t comprehend.

Naïve is just another word for stupid, though. And I wasn’t stupid.

I did have the tendency to go off on tangents, but that was more a reflection of my short attention span than my intelligence. Such was the case now, where Carla was glowering back at me for a solid minute, the last wavering notes of “Johnny Guitar” floating away on the pleasant winds that had distracted me from whatever it was Carla has said to me. I then spent the next few seconds recalling our conversation.

Oh, right. She had insulted me.

“Got it in one. Also, ouch,” I finally responded, causing Carla to huff.

“You told me that yourself, kid,” Carla said as Travis, the Diamond City Radio jockey, stumbled over his introduction of the next song, his self-deprecating groan blending incongruously into “[Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwqGHIa5hME)” by The Platters.

“Yeah. Cause it does,” I replied, the skip returning to my step now that the song had changed, “Not that he dumped me, though,” I corrected after a beat.

Carla made a noise of affirmation but it was dripping with disbelief.

“I’m serious,” I complained again, “He didn’t dump me.” I muttered under my breath that it was more complicated than that. Carla still caught it: nothing escapes her.

“Sweetheart, nothing in this wasteland is complicated; that was an Old World thing,” she said plainly.

“What, romantic relationships?”

“No, just the shit that comes when you put too much thought into something,” said Carla, almost sounding sage.

                _Well, I hate to leave you, baby_

_I swear I don’t mean maybe_

“ _You know I love you so_ ,” I sang along, head bobbing from side to side like an overly cheerful metronome.

“No singing!” Carla barked back, steering Millie northward at the Concord intersection, “You know my rules, girl.” I closed my mouth with an obedient, if somewhat sarcastic, pop.

“No fun either while we’re at it, yes ma’am!” I saluted her and she scoffed but otherwise didn’t reply, “Ooh, we bein’ sneaky?” I asked in an exaggerated whisper because I knew it would annoy my boss. I may enjoy the quiet peacefulness of the caravan life, but messing with Carla was a personal pastime and I’d never pass up an opportunity.

“Concord’s been clear for months now,” Carla said in the way of an answer, a lazy wave of her hand falling across the historic town, now little more than a charred collection of barely-standing husks, “I just hate your singing.”

“You wound me,” I said, holding a hand against my leather jacket, just over my heart. I pulled my hand away a second after, shaking my fingers to soothe the burn they’d gotten.

Might be about time to trade it out for my summer wasteland wardrobe. That’s too bad: I liked how cool the jacket made me look. Zeke would never forgive me for ditching it.

The Commonwealth was full of opportunities, though. Not 100 feet up the road, we were ambushed by a trio of raiders (probably a splinter cell from a larger clan). It was fairly obvious they didn’t know exactly who they were attacking, not at first anyway. But then I pulled my bulky white pistol from its holster, guiding my companions swiftly behind a hedge, and shot off three lightning-bright clinical blue laser bolts—

CRACK  
CRACK  
CRACK

—into the stunned faces of the raiders. They died having figured it all out, that much was clear from their expressions: fear frozen forever in death.

“My lucky day!” I sang cheerfully as Carla extracted herself and the brahmin from the tangle of vines.

I heard Carla sigh the same as she always did when I’d strip the dead of all their valuables (and some things you wouldn’t think to categorize as such); but it wasn’t Carla’s usual sigh, that snort of condescension and dry amusement.

This was Carla’s sad sigh.

 She probably thought I didn’t notice it; she had a tendency to write me off. But I was well aware that she had worked out that there was more to my life than I had told her. After all, the vault dweller story was too easy. Too normal.

I was too weird for that.

That said, I could tell it made Carla sad to see me take so quickly to Commonwealth life. When she’d met me, I’d been far more innocent. Certainly not spotless, but sweeter.

Sure, Carla appreciated my mean streak; it saved our asses more times than we cared to count. If anything, she’d compliment my shooting, calling me a “crack-shot,” even if she would insult my precious weapon in the same breath. She accused me of guarding it like it was alive, which, to be fair, I did.

“Got me a new jacket!” I called triumphantly, right on cue to break Carla’s reverie. She was probably wondering how I’d got here from where I’d started, ten years ago.

I held the jacket aloft for Carla to see, the dead raider flopping out of the sleeves to fall face-down into the ankle-high scrub grass surrounding the unkempt Red Rocket station. The attack was actually well timed, as the old fill-up station was our first stop for the day: Fixing up the garage into a functional settlement was my current project and we were here to drop off some useful scrap. Right now it was little more than a camp, however.

“I can’t wait to ship that new turret Sturges made for me here. Should give raiders pause before squatting in my damn settlement again,” I grumbled, already dragging the bodies further into the wilderness and away from the Red Rocket. Once the animal life got wind of them, they’d be all over.

Which I used to my advantage.

Let’s just say we always had Mole Rat Chunk Stew for weeks after a big raider attack. If Carla had worked out my tactics, she either couldn’t stomach confronting me about it or kept quiet because mole rat was her favorite.

I heard Carla sigh again as I flung the final body into the nearby clearing: my perfect kill-ground for Commonwealth beasties.

 

* * *

 

We hadn’t stayed at the Red Rocket long before continuing the short ways over to Sanctuary. This was my flagship settlement and served as the shining example of peak cooperative life I was pitching all over the northeast section of the Commonwealth. It was here that I first set up water purifiers and radiation-free crop planters.

Nobody knew where I’d “found” the tech to deliver such marvels. And as far as I was concerned that was a secret to be shared only with my inner circle.

Carla didn’t know anything about it, but not because she wasn’t part of that inner circle. It’s because she was my boss.

                “ _[That boy, he, that boy’s got woe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBOKE63hzbo)_

_Woe_

_He lives with woe_

_Woe._ ” I sang absentmindedly while picking away at the huge pile of scrap behind me that needed stripped and sorted. I really needed to train some of the more tech-savvy settlers how to do this. I had enough settlements under my belt now that my time was now better used doing other things.

Boring things. Like _management_.

Gross.

“This is why you aren’t allowed to play your station on the road,” Carla admonished me, sitting in a scavenged armchair beside me at our campfire, “Now stop using your mouth to make annoying noises and use it to eat the food that man was nice enough to bring you.”

I took one last sheepish look back at the hot plate I was dismantling before setting it and my favorite red screwdriver aside, “Sorry, for singing.”

I snatched up the starchy vegetable stew from where Preston had knowingly left it for me: on the flat cinderblocks surrounding the fire pit. It was only still warm because of this.

“You can’t help it, I know,” Carla said. She obviously stopped just short of adding “it’s ok,” lest she give off the impression of getting too soft. I found it cute that she even worried about something like that.

“I’ve just been thinking about something a lot recently,” I said between bites, careful not to talk with my mouth full. My mother would be proud of me.

“Is it that someone who ruined ‘Johnny Guitar’ for you?” Carla asked shrewdly, earning a glare from me.

“Maybe,” I finally mumbled, eyes darting furtively over the other settlers gathered around the fire. No one was paying me much mind; they at least left me alone if I was tinkering or eating.

It was still balmy out, despite the thick blanket of darkness hanging over the shanty town. Fires and lanterns flickered genially all over the cul-de-sac, warm orange light peeking through what holes and cracks still needed fixing in the repaired pre-war structures and newly constructed wooden shacks. My brain catalogued all the work for future delegation: Sturges loved boarding up buildings. It wasn’t so bad. It could definitely all be done.

Sanctuary could be home again… even if it couldn’t be mine.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Carla said, pulling me out of my head, “I’ve seen my share of heartbreak to know that it’s something you’d rather forget. But you love to talk.” And I’m here to listen, if you want. She didn’t have to say it out loud; I could read her just fine.

Usually I didn’t have a problem sharing. If anything, I’m sure most people would be quick to say I talk way too much.

But this was delicate, and not just because it involved a rejection that still stung ten years after the fact. This particular incident was linked to where (and when) I’d come from.

But I might be able to step around those problematic pieces of information if I was cautious.

I could do cautious. I’d learned from the best.

“I was staying with a guy named John after I got out,” I started carefully. If I played it right, Carla wouldn’t be able to tell I was being purposefully vague, “He was helping me adjust to the Commonwealth. We had a place in Diamond City with his older brother.” Carla barked.

“As if Diamond City could prepare you for what the world’s really like,” Carla waved a disapproving hand, “Heads so far up their own asses they can’t see daylight.”

“Yeah, but even that was a shock compared to my life on the inside. Communal toilets and shower rooms, need I say more?” I said. Carla just stared at me, “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know.”

“At least you had toilets.”

“Ugh, you don’t need to say it, Carla,” I said, dropping my bowl back onto the fire pit pavers. Thankfully I’d just finished.

“Your Johnny dump you for being so delicate?” Carla persisted. I was quiet for a minute, picking up the hot plate to contemplatively turn it over in my small hands.

“He didn’t have to dump me. We were never together,” I let out a drawn-out sigh, “I just pined for him from afar.”

“Ahh, I see. How cute,” Carla drawled, but she had a little smile forming on her face.

“Yes. Cute. Precious even,” I said, rolling my eyes. Whether it was directed at Carla or my past self was uncertain, “I was only 16. He turned me down for being too young.”

“And how old was he?” Carla asked, actually sounding a little incensed, to her credit.

“At the time? 20, I think. He wasn’t really the kind of guy to keep track of time like that,” I replied, realizing the contradiction as I said it. Didn’t mean both things weren’t true.

The night was deepening. Most of the Sanctuary settlers had gone to sleep at this point, aside from a few stragglers at the bar at the center of the cul-de-sac and the guards patrolling the perimeter of the settlement. I let myself feel a little swell of pride for how at-ease everyone looked, how cheerful the atmosphere remained despite the darkness (both literal and metaphorical) that surrounded us.

I had helped make this place safe.

 _I_ did that.

“I think,” I started, my voice a little wobbly with emotion. I turned my eyes back to the hot plate and tugged out the heat sensor so Sturges could install it in another turret I’d commissioned for Sunshine Tidings. I continued to separate all the copper wiring from the casing: The familiar action soothed my and let me focus.

“I think he meant that I wasn’t mature enough—no wait, John would be one to fucking talk, Mr. King of Running from His Problems…” I muttered in annoyance, bringing the tech to eye-level and crossing my eyes to zero in on the tiny node I needed to disconnect.

“You would know,” Carla laughed. I stuck out my tongue: the picture of maturity.

“He meant I wasn’t ready yet. Yes! Success!” I cheered, finally prying the bundle of red and green cables free and tossing them into the box behind me. The useless metal casing was sorted into a much larger container, holding all manner of scrap.

Nothing was wasted. With the number of settlements I oversaw, I couldn’t afford to leave anything unused.

Hands lacking anything to dismantle now, I set to redoing the numerous braids in my hair. Carla didn’t get it, a fact she was quick to remind me of every time I set to the task, since I was just going to wash my hair tomorrow morning anyway. But Carla didn’t really understand my hair at all. She said it was too long and complicated.

She blamed it on me liking to stand out.

Everywhere I travelled, from Concord to Salem, I got noticed. If it wasn’t my pistol, obviously of Institute-make the second I fired it, it was my hair: long and oddly sun-bleached and always styled just the way I liked. Or my jacket, which, until today, had boasted my inclusion in the Atom Cats—reminder to self to start cleaning the new jacket I’d picked from the dead raider. Or even still, my set of leather armor, studded with bolts for strength and spikes because it looked cool; my favorite piece was the knee guard I’d painted a bright yellow frowny face on.

Or, perhaps the most special part of my typical getup: my belt, slung loose around my waist with a bizarre cluster of my wasteland treasures clipped to it for safekeeping. I had some neat-looking feathers from ravens and radgulls, some in-tact keychains and bobblehead heads, and even a mummified mole rat paw. It would make my day when I found some new strange and mysterious item worthy of The Belt.

Yes as Carla regularly ribbed me for, I was on a constant quest to differentiate myself from the rest of the Commonwealth’s citizens. She constantly mocked me about it, asking me if there weren’t some pedestal I’d like to go stand on instead of continuing the boring life of a caravan hand. I couldn’t really blame her for being confused about my intentions: Nothing about the way I looked, behaved, fought, or spoke added up to being second-in-command to an old scavver like her.

Well, nothing aside from the need to never stop moving. I didn’t slow down for _anything_.

It’s a lot harder for your past to catch up to you if you never stop to breathe.

I could feel Carla’s eyes on me, despite maintaining an even, far-away gaze in the general direction of Preston doing his rounds, keeping my pride and joy safe like almost nowhere else in the Commonwealth could be. I stayed my twitchy hands and instead picked up my PipBoy, fiddling with the various knobs and making it produce a collection of blips and buzzes before tuning it back to PTRA Radio, which was stationed down the street here in Sanctuary between the local Minuteman outpost and the shanty town market.

A second later, Randy the DJ came on the waves to say the station’s founder—me—had made a request. A different song started up.

_[I was following the](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_jHavoxo1s)_

_I was following the_

_I was following the—I was following the_

_I was following the_

“Couldn’t just walk down the road and ask them to change the song?” Carla asked wryly, but was still smiling. I put my hands behind my head and laid down amongst the dry, brown grass. I didn’t respond right away, instead humming along with the song, soft and sweet.

The song, that is. My humming was average.

“Why would I move when I’m so happy where I am?” I laughed quietly, staring up into the clear Commonwealth sky, dotted with stars in patterns people used to give names to. Stuff like that was long forgotten these days, but I made efforts to remember it all. I could practically hear Carla thinking about that, wondering, probably not for the first time, just how much she actually knew about me.

There was no way I could know just how much she valued me, though. And how there was no one she trusted more to take over her caravan once she was ready to grow old—old _er_ —and retire. She likely would never tell me that in words.

Carla was an _actions_ sort of gal.

“Hey, you think you might be up for a little job for me?” Carla asked me suddenly. I looked over to her, brown eyes wide with expectation and surprise. She _never_ asked me to do solo work. She didn’t ask for anything, period: she just ordered. What was this about?

“Yeah sure,” I said, trying to sound confident despite my doe-eyed look.

“Well I’ve been meaning to expand our reach a little, what with Bunker Hill—”

“You know I’ve got a song for that,” I interjected, pointing a finger at Carla and grinning.

“Yeah, and that’s why I hate going there with you,” Carla yelled, rolling her eyes, “Anyway, you little shit.” I giggled.

“Guilty.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Carla continued, narrowing her eyes at me, “I’ve been meaning to expand our routes down there now that they’re positioning themselves as a major trading hub.”

“Because they pay off the raiders not to hit their routes,” I said darkly, all humor gone from my face now, “ _That’s_ the real reason we don’t deal in Bunker Hill.”

“Yeah, I know that. I want you to go and take care of it,” Carla sighed exasperatedly.

“I don’t deal with raiders, Carla. I kill them,” I said, deadpan.

“Like I said, I want you to take care of things,” Carla said, voice heavy with implication. Realization blossomed across my features so quickly that I could see Carla holding back a laugh, “Think you can do that, squirt?”

“You know I can.”

“Good, then set out tomorrow and make me proud, kid.”

“Anything to impress you,” I said, smirking as I shot up and jogged away for the Sanctuary gates. I’d have to stop at home for some heavy artillery for a job like this.

And Dogmeat, of course.

My faithful little guard dog was tailing—ha ha—after Preston as he made his rotation around the junk wall bulwark.

“Hey boy!” I laughed when Dogmeat bounded toward me. I’d given him lots of pets and hugs when I’d arrived in town earlier, but he always greeted me like I’d been gone for a year.

All my friends did.

I think I worried them.

“Hey there, Petra,” Preston greeted me, pausing in his patrol to stand under the glow of a streetlight. I stayed in the shadows, though. Standing in a spotlight like that was just begging for someone to scope you from a distance.

“Hey to you too,” I smiled back at the Minuteman, pulling him in for a hug and surreptitiously pulling him out from under the light, “Thanks for the soup earlier. And sorry for probably ignoring you when you dropped it off.”

“You were busy,” Preston replied goodnaturedly, referring to the hot plate I’d been working on, but not making note of me moving him into safety if he’d noticed, “Goodness knows we could use all that junk. I appreciate you bringing us the resources.”

“Well it’s fun for me too. I love pulling things apart and seeing what’s inside,” I waved a hand, then abruptly stopped, “The sounded more sadistic than I meant it to.”

“So, some sadism meant, but not _that_ much,” Preston laughed, “Noted.”

“Can’t dispatch as many raiders as I do and still be squeamish,” I shrugged and chuckled too. I was always amused when Preston joked with me, as it didn’t happen terribly often. He was always so serious.

Earnest would be a kinder word for it, though.

 “You heading out already?” Preston asked, turning a little quieter again.

“Perceptive as always,” I signed, scratching at my hairline apologetically, “Sorry I never stick around.”

“I can’t be mad when you’re doing the Commonwealth so much good,” Preston smiled and I flushed in response.

“Well shucks, I was just doing it for all the free mutfruit but now you’ve made me sound all noble and shit,” I said, trying to rebound with a note of casualness despite the red glow on my face. Direct praise from Preston really did make me realize how much my efforts were appreciated. It was nice to have my efforts noticed. I’d probably never get used to it, though.

Maybe that’s partially why I did everything I did. People in this time acknowledged deeds done for them.

“So where you headed?”

“Bunker Hill,” I replied. I _never_ lied to my inner circle, my best friends.

“Well good luck, and come back to us in one piece. We’ll all be waiting,” Preston said, reaching out for a handshake. I pulled him in for another hug, longer this time and more genuine. I patted his back before pulling away.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dogmeat and I made our way back to our home in no time. I lived so close to Sanctuary that one might wonder why I didn’t bother to just shack up in the town proper.

But I did sometimes enjoy a bit of privacy, and it didn’t feel right to take up that much space in a settlement for me alone. So I’d set myself up just past the Red Rocket station in the long dried-up Concord water tower. Getting all my creature comforts set up there had almost been too difficult even for me, and it had tested my spirit. But once I’d managed it, even splitting the structure up into three separate floors and a roof-top balcony, I’d made myself one of the coolest homes in the Commonwealth.

And I liked cool.

I wasn’t ashamed to admit that aesthetics were important to me. As if the way I dressed and kept my hair wasn’t already enough of an indication.

As far I as I was concerned, 200 and some odd years was well long enough after B-day for people to start caring about how shit looked _as well_ as how well it kept you from dying.

Dogmeat was never easy to corral into the gated lift, but we were both eventually on our way up and pushing through the makeshift door I’d made to block the hole which served as the tower’s entrance.

“Maybe someday we’ll invest in some stairs for you, buddy,” I said when I let Dogmeat leap through the door ahead of me. He whined in response, settling down on my bed on the middle level while I continued to the third floor, which served as my personal armory.

The generator situated on the roof kicked on as I flicked the armory’s light switch, which rent the stillness of the Commonwealth atmosphere with the irritated buzzing of dozens of florescent tubes.

I flipped the switch off again as I went back down to the living level, backpack laden with ammo and my favorite sniper rifle slung across my back. Usually my laser pistol was enough (I’d certainly modded it to hell and back, so it was capable of handling anything), but I didn’t know what kind of environment I’d find the raiders holed up in. If I had the option to take most out from a distance, I had the patience for that.

Can’t say the same for my usual travelling companions, however.

“I know you miss Piper, buddy, but I don’t think this mission will be the best use of her talents,” I said, depositing my backpack on the bed next to Dogmeat, who, to his credit, did always at least give the appearance of listening. His ears twitched attentively.

Strong was an option. He certainly wouldn’t balk at killing raiders, and he never flinched to wipe out an entire encampment of assholes when we needed to, that’s for sure. But it might also not be _super smart_ to bring a _super mutant_ along to the Hill afterward to negotiate a new trade route. So the big guy was out too.

“We could grab Nicky,” I mused out loud, and Dogmeat stood up, front feet prancing excitedly. Nick was one of his favorites from my friends: The synth’s metal hand probably made for pretty nice ear scratches. I paused, “He was pretty mad at me the last time I saw him, though.”

Dogmeat settled on the sheets again, ears flattening against his head and eyes wide and sad.

“Ok, maybe not _mad_ , but he wasn’t happy,” I continued. Dogmeat tilted his head to the left.

“But Nicky being disappointed in me is honestly worse,” I mused, sitting on the bed with my hands clasped together in my lap. Dogmeat tilted his head to the right now.

“He may be over it by now though. It _was_ half a year ago,” I sighed, tapping my thumbs together. Dogmeat tilted his head back again. I gave him a scrutinizing look.

“You’re not helping.”

Dogmeat huffed at me goodnaturedly, wagging his tail. I screwed up my mouth while I thought. As much as I missed the detective, Diamond City was well out of my way from Bunker Hill.

Not to mention that it was always a risk hanging around the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth, now that Charles McDonough was the damned mayor. That guy had the Institute’s stink all over him and that was a huge risk for me to take. I didn’t shy away from risk, but the Institute was in a league all its own. I needed another run-in with the Institute like I needed a new hole in my head.

“Ugh.”

I hated thinking about the Institute. Thankfully I didn’t need to worry about it too much these days, at least not since running away to the Commonwealth’s northeast quadrant. They didn’t usually bother to terrorize random country bumpkins. I would be lying to myself if I said I hadn’t chosen this region partially due to that fact.

Without really willing them to, my eyes flicked over to my bedside table: a prewar chest of drawers I had originally tried to stain but had failed and given up on. It was now painted a garish yellow because it was the one color still vastly accessible in the post-apocalypse.

Small wonder why.

I tugged open the stubborn bottom drawer. I kept my most important trinkets here for safekeeping. It was more secure than any safe, as far as I was concerned, since nobody but me knew just how to convince it to open. Inside was an odd collection of things that either couldn’t be affixed to my belt of treasures or were too dear to me to be carried around all the time.

From within the nest of sentimental junk I pulled out a folded piece of blue fabric. I unfurled it to reveal a jumpsuit with accents and numbering as yellow as the drawer I’d freed it from.

It was small. Made for a child.

I glared at the suit for a quiet moment, imagining my 9-year-old self in it.

When I did so, my younger self always looked petrified.

“I don’t think even Doctor Amari could figure out why I keep this around, Dogmeat. Not even if she had me passed out in her chair all day,” I said, sounding more wry than sardonic. The old vault suit brought it out of me, “But I’m sure that shithead had a good reason for letting me keep it.”

Dogmeat placed his head on my lap, looking up at me sadly as I folded it again, carefully placing it back in the drawer, which I then closed with a louder snap than I meant to. I sat there a while longer, brain going a little fuzzy as I zoned out, mindlessly patting the dog’s head.

There _was_ one companion that I’d be truly pleased to have by my side for this job, but I hadn’t talked to him in a long, _long_ time. And he’d certainly have questions for me—uncomfortable questions, I knew—before he’d agree to help me.

He _would_ help, though. He’d help me all damn day, for the rest of the week, for months following even that. He was the most loyal friend I had. Whether or not he was _still_  my friend remained to be seen.

“Might be time to grow up a bit, Dogmeat,” I sighed again, much deeper this time, “I guess a decade is probably long enough for that, huh?” Dogmeat barked twice in response.

That meant yes.


	2. For Centuries Long Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First flashback sequence. They'll happen every other chapter.

**A Lousy Handful of Earth**

_Chapter 2- For Centuries Long Past_

_[“It’s All Over but the Crying” by The Inkspots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7Fpp2VT5lk) _

 

I couldn’t remember the moment the cryo pod opened. If you asked me now I could remember exactly when it closed, sure: I’d probably never forget B-day.

You don’t forget trauma like that so easily.

What’s more, I had later realized I’d also woken up once before the Big Thaw, but I couldn’t remember that either. Everything went blank from the crystalline whiteness of my cryo pod on.

The next thing I knew was the blinding whiteness of The Institute.

I don’t know if they’d drugged me when I was released from my pod, or if the sheer absurdity of the situation caused my brain to realize remembering everything would be the final straw that made recovery impossible. Either way, in my memories I teleport from my pod, frozen in cryo, to The Institute, frozen in fear.

Before me stood the Director: even 9-year-old me could tell he ran things, just from how he stood there before me. And, perhaps even more telling: how everyone else arranged themselves around _him_.

Even if I’d somehow found my voice, which had been particularly difficult for me as a kid even before I’d found myself in this situation, I’d have lost it right away again upon the Director’s first words to me:

“Welcome home, sister.”

Only the buzzing of florescent lightbulbs followed this greeting. Dad used to joke that those long tubes were full of talkative little fireflies, at least when he began to notice that they were on my “Strange Things Petra Doesn’t Like” list. I still think about that now, even though the noise doesn’t bother me like it used to.

The Director extended his hands slightly and glanced around to the others, who muttered back a chorus of “Welcome home, Petra.” He waited a few more seconds as my eyes darted sharply, skittishly, between the assembled mass. Some were smiling at me, with upturned eyebrows and kindness reflecting on their faces, while others simply watched me with neutral expressions. At least one person looked obviously annoyed; I swear he was imperceptively tapping his toes on the sterile metal floor.

“My name is Father,” the Director started again, but this time I found my words.

“You aren’t my dad,” I said, voice squeaky but full of contempt. Several people actually laughed at me, which distressed me even further, “You aren’t _either_ of my dads, so stop lying!” I yelled, hands curling into tiny fists. The laughter increased, so I clapped my hands to either side of my head and dug them into my ears to drown them out.

“My dad would never let anyone laugh at me!” I sobbed, breathing becoming erratic as my composure finally fell apart and I started to spiral. My mind had finally tried to stretch too far, to accept this reality, and it had snapped. I’m still amazed I lasted as long as I did: some people collapse after just leaving a vault for the first time. Can’t imagine what suddenly appearing in The Fucking Institute would do to them.

Some of the laughter started to fade as my panic rose, but I was already slipping into an attack and that alone wouldn’t be enough to stop it now.

And, despite whatever I think of him now, the Director stood up for me then. He turned to the others with such animosity in his expression that I’m amazed none of them turned to stone. Any remaining humor died immediately and several people left the atrium altogether. He then took a few slow steps toward me, hands held before him in the universal stance of surrender. He knelt down to my level and waited patiently for me to calm down, keeping eye contact and staying completely still.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I of course did not mean _your_ father; I could certainly never aspire to his same importance to you,” his tone was soft, but not condescending: like he was addressing an equal.

I still don’t know where he learned to imitate it.

With a few more shuddering breaths, I finally quieted completely, my knuckles rubbing away the trails of tears on my cheeks. I nodded for him to continue.

“I believe we actually _share_ a father, rather,” the Director continued, this time proceeding before I could react, “Although, I’m quite a bit bigger than when you last saw me. I must admit, it feels a bit odd to call you my _older_ sister.”

I was only silent the span of a moment before I spoke his name, “Shaun?”

His face broke into a kindly smile and he seemed impressed, “Yes! Yes, that is me. I am Shaun,” and then, in an aside to the others, “Children can have such an amazing capacity to grasp complex ideas that even adults struggle with.”

“You’re old,” I said, more statement than question. I probably could have expected more laughter now, but the room remained almost deathly silent.

“Ha—yes, I suppose I am,” Shaun said, sounding amused at my candor, “I’m 42 years old now, but you remember me as an infant.”

“You had just turned one when we had to… to leave,” I said, but didn’t really have the words to describe it all. I couldn’t recall that morning at the time, even though I thought it had just happened, “I can’t—can’t… remember.” I fell off of the sentence, looking questioningly into my brother’s face. There were wrinkles around his clear, blue eyes. They were mom’s eyes. Mine are brown… Dad’s are green.

“Where’s Dad?” I asked quietly, “…and Mom,” I corrected myself. Shaun’s face firmed a little and he sighed, standing back to his full height and resting a hand on my shoulder.

“We have a long conversation ahead of us, but let’s first show you your room and get you changed,” he said, indicating my vault suit. I now noticed that it was slightly damp from the cryo ice that had clung to me for nearly 200 years.

At the time, I of course had no idea that that’s how long it had been.

But I wasn’t scared in that moment. I felt safe and protected, because my brother, all grown up now, was here.

I would have trusted Shaun to take care of me in any way I could have needed. I trusted him implicitly, soothed and taken in by his ability to comfort me and communicate with me. It wasn't something just anyone could do.

Most didn’t have the patience.

I’d have followed him through the apocalypse, if that’s what was needed, with my tiny hand, too small for my age, held protectively in his. Ironically, the apocalypse was where we’d now found ourselves, even though it would be five painful years before I’d actually witness it for myself. But Shaun didn’t really live in the apocalypse: his mind lived in the future of humanity. He’d departed from us long ago, despite the words he spoke to me that day.

I’m not sure who that person was, the one who introduced himself as my brother that first day in The Institute. That person stopped existing as soon as I was settled and had changed out of my vault suit.

After that there was only Father.


	3. Gonna Bolt the Door

**A Lousy Handful of Earth**

_Chapter 3- Gonna Bolt the Door_

_“Fallout Shelter” by Dore Alpert_

 

 _[La la lalala la la lalala la la lala LA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7N9JeH3SzE)_ [—](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7N9JeH3SzE)

 _“I’m gonna lock myself in a_ —” ZAP, “ _fallout shelter to get away from you_.” ZAPPITY ZAP.

Dogmeat jumped into a feral’s chest to push it down to mauling range.

“ _I’m gonna bolt. The. Door._ ”

I dodged another ghoulie creeping out from under a derailed carriage car to swipe at my ankles.

“ _Never come out no more, just to keep away from you_! Yes you, grabby,” I deadpanned at the feral as it continued its pursuit of my feet. A laser bolt to the leg to immobilize it proved effective, as it succumbed to its wound by the end of the chorus.

“ _I’m gonna lock my heart, to keep out RAY—DEE—AY—SHUN_ ,” ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP in time with the syllables, “ _The kind you’ve got_ ,” STOMP, “ _could blow out a nation. And never more will I open the door, cause I might get CON—TAM—IN—AY—SHUN_ ,” STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP on some radroaches that decided to enter the fray of laser fire and vicious doggie bites against all better judgement.

“ _Tough_ —” CRACK, “ _tough_ —” ZOW, “ _yoooouuuu_!” I started again after taking a quick breather following my stomping fit.

Dogmeat barked with worry to signal me that even _more_ danger was headed out way: a roving gang of super mutants this time, all green and angry like some gross comic book stereotype.

“Really?” I sighed in exasperation as I stepped behind a train car to root around in my bag for some chemical inspiration.

Bingo! We have Jet.

I popped a hit from the red inhaler and felt the world creep to a near standstill around me.

“ _Well if you change you mind_ ,” I had to stop to giggle at my voice, which sounded like I’d sucked on some sulfur hexafluoride. I stepped around the train car and pulled up VATS on my PipBoy, selecting each of their pea-sized heads in turn.

“ _Just drop me a line, push it through the_ —” time caught up with itself now with an angry roar from one of the mutants.

“ _VEN—_ ” ZAP

“ _TIL—_ ” ZAP

“ _AY—_ ” ZAP

“ _SHUN_ —” ZAP

“ _If you don’t care baby, slip me some air_ ,” I sang jovially as four gurgling, wet corpses fell to the ground almost at the right tempo. Dogmeat bounded over to take care of double-tapping them, “ _And I’ll stay for ANOTHER GENERATION_ ,” I yelled with no care for harmony, as if challenging another group of wasteland weirdos to run over and try to shush me.

The song faded out on one last repeat of the chorus. The ludicrous chanting of the backing vocals slipped away as I skipped over to loot the mutants of all their valuables, creating a very fitting and surreal image of my experience in the Commonwealth.

I treated this hellscape a bit too much like a carnival.

“Well I think that’ll get people talking about us, huh boy?” I said to Dogmeat as we continued on to Bunker Hill unimpeded, pockets and backpack now full of “resources” thanks to the ferals. We’d apparently cleared the entire area of hostiles with that stunt. Dogmeat barked twice in response.

“That song’s—what—two and a half minutes long? Taking down all them baddies that quickly will definitely get some talk in the city,” I smiled, despite my gut still kind of clenching uncomfortably, “Johnny No. 2 will be waiting for us for sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

I’d never been to visit the Bunker Hill monument before the bombs fell, but even still I could tell I’d prefer its post-nuclear-annihilation look more. The way lanterns lit up the obelisk every few floors where holes had blasted through the bricks gave the thing a lighthouse aesthetic, signaling to passing traders and wastelanders that safe port could be found there.

More than once I’d mistakenly called the settlement _Beacon Hill_ because of this.

It was dark by the time we made it to the Hill, having set out from Sanctuary a couple of days ago. I could make the trip comfortably in a day and half (or _un_ comfortably within a day, if I needed to), but I’d taken my time for good reason. The longer I took and the more noise I made, the better my chances that my approach would reach the right ears.

Because if this was gonna work, my companion had to come to _me_.

I didn’t have access to him anymore.

We passed through the gates without trouble; Carla and I were known on the Hill even if we didn’t do business here. We’d gotten to be a bit of a big deal. Any northern settlement worked exclusively with our caravans if they could, or, at the very least, gave us preferential treatment before any other company. Perks of being the Commonwealth’s most prolific settlement builder.

It rubbed some caravans the wrong way, but most were honestly grateful not to make the long trek northward and instead refocused their efforts inside the city limits or on the edge of the Glowing Sea, which was an up-and-coming hotspot for settlements as the radiation slowly receded.

My feet found their way over to the Savoldis’ bar, as per usual. Didn’t matter where I went—the bar was always my first stop.

“Well look what the radroaches dragged in,” Joe Savoldi (the senior in the bar’s father-son duo) greeted me in his usual manner, “Long time no see, stranger.”

“The expression is ‘what the _cat_ dragged in’ and you know it, Joe. We still have cats in the apocalypse,” I ribbed him, knowing full well that we’d had this conversation numerous times before. I don’t know if he forgot every time, if he’d just decided this was how we greeted each other, if it was his unsubtle way of reminding me he knew I was prewar, or some combination thereof. It didn’t really matter, but you’ve got lots of time to wonder about useless things like that when wandering the Commonwealth.

“You getting whiskey straight up, Petra?” asked Tony, Joe’s son, as he rounded the corner from the bar’s back room. His smile lingered as he looked me over.

“ _Hi_ Tony,” I said, flirtation obvious in my tone, “How sweet of you to remember what I like.”

“Not hard when we’ve only got a handful of options and you’re the only one who drinks the swill,” Tony said offhandedly, despite the tips of his ears turning pink under his newsboy cap.

Dogmeat ran behind the bar to distract Joe and beg for table scraps. He’d probably be here for the rest of the night.

“Well I still appreciate it. Nice to know you’ve never forgotten me,” I cheesed with a coy smile as Tony slid me a mostly clean rocks glass. Tony was a little too nice for me to be truly interested in him, but teasing him was usually enough of a reward in itself. And he had a good voice. Sometimes that’s enough too.

“I can’t imagine anyone forgets you,” Tony said, voice a bit husky in the way that implied he knew my game but didn’t mind.

“You tell her that’s on the house and I’m cutting you out of my will, boy,” Joe grumbled goodnaturedly from the other end of the bar.

“You know I’m good for it,” I laughed, slapping some caps down on the counter, “Plus a little extra. Gotta keep up my _savior of the people_ image,” I added with a wink.

“Go enjoy that drink somewhere else so I can focus, Petra,” Tony said, quirking another smile as he collected the caps and his tip.

“Just using me for my money, I see! I thought we had something, Tony. Well, I’ll just be going then,” I scoffed, which got a laugh as I spun on my barstool and walked off with feigned indignation.

I did a quick tour of the Hill, keeping an eye out for Kessler while I scanned the horde of assembled caravan hands and settlers. I eventually found the woman in question, wrist-deep in weeding the community garden despite still sporting her official attire.

“Hey there Ms. Mayor,” I greeted Kessler, taking a long sip of my whiskey as if to say: Yes, I have made my requisite contribution to a Bunker Hill business before bothering you for something.

“Delaney,” Kessler replied in her clipped tone. Very mayoral.

“I see the Hill is remaining as prosperous and morally ambiguous as always,” I said. Kessler grunted as she stood, dusting the dirt from hands.

“I know what you think of us, you don’t need to joke,” Kessler said, all business. As always.

“Joke? I never joke. Just congratulating you on figuring out how to solve all the Commonwealth’s problems: throw lots of money at the bloodthirsty gangs!”

Kessler’s stare was cold as I took another drag from my glass. She’d never openly glare at me, but she knew that I knew she really wanted to.

“We’ve actually had some problems with that arrangement recently,” Kessler said, sounding like she wish she had anyone else in the world she could admit it to. I stayed quiet to allow her to continue, “They’ve been taking the caps and still hitting our caravans.”

“Whaaaat, the raiders aren’t keeping to their word? What _scoundrels_!” I couldn’t help but ridicule her, hands slapping against my cheeks in a dramatic display of surprise. I spilled the remainder of my drink all over the garden sod, but it was totally worth it to see Kessler’s glower, “Careful, you’re half way to a glare there, Kess.”

“We’ve got a bounty out for their removal if you’re interested,” Kessler said, voice strained as if every word caused a sharp spike of pain throughout her body.

“Just call me pest control,” I said cheerfully in lieu of a yes. I wasn’t a bounty hunter, I was a _professional_.

“Uh huh,” Kessler grunted again, “We’re only dealing with Zeller’s Army now. They’ve gotten so big that they’ve destroyed or annexed all the competition,” she continued, obviously hoping I’d get skittish and back off it. I wasn’t biting, though.

“Ooh yes, very intimidating. How do you want me to prove I’ve killed him? That’s something bounty hunters have to do, right?”

“Just bring me Zeller’s helmet, I suppose. I’ll be sure to recognize it,” Kessler sighed, “They’re holed up in East Boston Preparatory. Not far from here.”

“Well gee, I guess I should just head right out then, huh?” I said, to which Kessler gave a curt nod, refusing to break under the weight of my monumental mockery. Deciding I’d given her a hard enough time, I turned to wander off with no more than a quick salute.

I decided to complete my circle of the settlement by passing the front gates, the Savoldis’ bar as my intended final destination so I could get a refill and bother Tony some more. As I was rounding the front of the monument, staring up to admire it as I went, I heard a quiet, deep voice come from the gate.

“You look like you’re a black belt in karate.”

My gut dropped and my heart fluttered just a little with nervous anticipation.

I turned around to look at the person that had spoken. An unassuming caravan hand was leaning against the gate, arms crossed and a lit cigarette hanging loosely between his index and middle fingers. Dark mirrored shades obscured his eyes and reflected a flash of lantern light back at me, looking a bit like cat eyes, which glowed at you from the dark.

I ambled over without a word, nonchalantly making a motion that I wanted to bum a cigarette from him. He obliged, holding up a hand close to my face to block the wind from blowing out the flame of his lighter. I was tempted to blow it out myself. For old time’s sake.

But things were different now.

I took a drag, holding in the smoke a moment before exhaling. I desperately needed to cough, but championed through it and kept my cool as the sting left my throat.

“Well when you’re working for the city,” I finally replied, moving my hand back to mouth the mime taking another drag, “You’ve got to discipline your body.” The caravan hand nodded slightly and I could see the tiniest smile on his lips—just for me.

“Been a while, Yoshimi,” he said, softer now that we’d acknowledged our call sign for each other.

“Everyone always says that to me when I come back; why not ‘hey Pet, missed you’ or something cheerful like that,” I sighed, “Besides, that’s bullshit, DeeDee. You and I both know you keep tabs on me,” I replied, matching his tone but quirking a smile of my own and glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

“You’ve gotta take an actual hit every other time, Emmylou,” he said, avoiding my eyes and remaining casual. I huffed in annoyance and his smile widened, “Hey, you’re the one who committed to the cigarette bit. You’ve gotta do it right.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Graham,” I grumbled, inhaling another cloying cloud of smoke. This one stuck to the lining of my lungs longer, but it didn’t hurt as badly, “I had a decent teacher, after all,” I said after blowing the smoke out the corner of my mouth in his general direction.

“Hey, I was a _great_ teacher _thank you very much_ ,” he quipped and then added, “June,” almost as an afterthought.

“Forgotten our game already, Johnny?” I teased, matching him.

“Can’t forget you… Petra.”

“I’m glad, Deacon.”


	4. Our Skills Are Not Needed

**A Lousy Handful of Earth**

_Chapter 4- Our Skills Are Not Needed_

_“[Nobody Knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQk5In9YvH8)” by The Lumineers _

 

“Hello there, sister,” a gen-2 greeted me in as cheerful a tone as its outdated voice modulator would allow.

“Hi there,” I responded automatically, despite recoiling a little at the title. I pulled my arms tighter around myself as I walked hurriedly through the upper level of The Institute.

“Hello, little sister,” another gen-2 spoke to me in passing from its guard post.

“Yes, hello,” I replied, trying to smile. I started descending a staircase to head to the robotics department. I was again interrupted by another of the resident synths, this time a female gen-3.

“Hello, sister Petra!” she called to me, smiling in a way implicitly human, “I hope you have a wonderful day.”

“Thank you, uh—” I faltered, trying to remember, “D9-82. You as well.” The synth smiled wider and bowed her head slightly before continuing on her way. They were always so grateful for being addressed by their designations that I made it a point to do so.

It was the most individuality The Institute let them have.

Thankfully no one else stopped me after this last exchange, human or synth, and I was able to sneak away to the robotics storage closet unnoticed.

“Jeez, it’s about time, Petra!” I heard from the corner of the tiny room as I pushed the button to close the door behind me, “I was starting to get anxious.”

“You’re always anxious, Liam,” I sighed as he stepped into the light, already wringing his hands, “I’m sorry for being late, I got stopped by a gen-3 and had to act natural.”

“Did they suspect anything?” Liam asked, voice still a little squeaky despite him being well out of puberty.

“No, she was fine,” I soothed. Even though he was 19 and five years my senior, I often found myself being the adult between the two of us. He could be a bit of a spaz, but Liam Binet was probably my only human friend in this place.

“Ok… ok,” Liam repeated a few times, taking deep breaths, “I’m just nervous. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“We’ve been planning this for a year now! Don’t tell me you’re backing out the day of?” I cried, frustration evident in my voice, which I regretted when Liam shrunk away from me.

“No! I’m just— _worried_ , Petra,” he said, “This is a huge risk and we don’t even know that it’ll work—”

“Liam,” I cut him off, trying to remain resolute but calming, “It _will_ work. The notes we found told us exactly what to do, and that’s what we’ve done.”

“But what if those holotapes were just a trap for us? Because they knew how badly you want to leave?”

This was an old worry: one we’d rehashed a million times over at this point. It wasn’t without warrant, but I trusted our mysterious benefactor.

“I trust him,” I said with finality. Liam huffed as he always did. He didn’t understand my blind optimism. Maybe that came from being born and growing up in a hole underground.

That’s not what I wanted for myself. And, apparently, not what our cryptic Institute resident wanted either. Because Liam was right: The notes we’d found, tucked away behind an air vent in my favorite place to hide as a kid, seemed to be personally meant for me. We don’t know who put them there, but it was apparent they knew me.

The oddest past was the fact that these notes were written as though the owner had already escaped The Institute; so how they came to be found behind that vent is an enigma neither Liam nor I have been able to parse. He just assumed it was a trap because that was the most plausible option.

He had skepticism and I had trust.

“But we’re not just risking our own lives, Petra,” Liam continued, finally letting on to what was really bothering him.

“They all volunteered,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s still a huge risk. We’ve got protection from our parents—”

“Father is _not_ my parent,” I cut across him heatedly enough though Liam had immediately realized his mistake.

“Shit, I’m sorry—”

“That asshole isn’t even my brother. Shaun stopped existing five years ago when he kidnapped me from the Vault,” I continued passionately, face becoming red from teenage rage.

“Petra, I know. It was just a slip,” Liam said, this time trying to placate me. Was it any wonder we only had each other as friends? We were a mess.

“Ok, I’m sorry,” I said, finally calming down after taking a minute to focus on something other than my hatred, “Christ, maybe I’m nervous too.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Liam sighed, “But Petra, you’ve gotta know the synths are just gonna be dismantled if we’re caught. I don’t think they’d even bother with reprogramming them.”

“Yeah, they’d definitely be made into an example,” I agreed grimly, “And they know that too.”

“I know they do, but…” Liam trailed off, looking forlorn.

“Liam, I know you care about them. Hell, you care more about the synths than probably anyone,” I said, “But we have to give them the chance to use their free will. If we take away their choice, deny their sentience, we’re no better than any of those other shitheads here: fucking with their lives like kids playing with dolls.”

Liam stayed quiet.

“They’ve chosen to leave, no matter the consequences.”

Liam sighed, a deep, drawn-out sigh, “I know.”

“And I’ve chosen too,” I added, looking to him with a tight-lipped smile, hoping I could impart all my feelings of gratitude, hope, and—yes—worry I felt in that single look.

Liam sighed again, this time short and less burdened by sadness. He pulled me in for a rare hug, holding on tightly.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. I laughed softly, more an exhalation than an actual chuckle.

“Hey, if this goes as well as our guy’s notes say it should, I’ll live to come back here and burn it to the ground for good,” I said, feeling tears in my eyes but a righteous fury in my gut.

“Might be hard to raze a structure that’s built underground,” Liam said, also with a watery laugh.

“Shut up,” I said, giving him one last squeeze.

We assembled, the seven of us, in another maintenance closet later that night. There was no sunlight in The Institute to convey time, but Facilities made an effort to simulate a day-night cycle so the residents, the human ones anyway, had some semblance of normalcy.

This closet was smaller so it was quite a tight fit, but it was much closer to the abandoned hallways we’d be taking to reach the relay level. Liam and I had let ourselves be seen often enough around the other closet to let the others believe it was our main meeting area. No one should suspect us going this route.

Liam darted out first, as he aroused the least amount of suspicion: five gen-3 synths wandering off-schedule and the sister of the fucking Director tended to draw attention. Liam said people expected odd behavior from him.

He came back a few minutes later to soundlessly wave us out. Through a handful of doors, across a few long-forgotten, grimy hallways, and down three flights of stairs and we had found ourselves in front of the teleporter. The synths all lined up on the pad, looking cramped but filled with a thrilled kind of exhilaration.

Liam ran over to the terminal, pulling out a folded paper containing his instructions; he’d be burning it after we’d gone. It was honestly funny he’d even brought it, as he’d had everything memorized for months now.

“Ok, so these coordinates will send you out somewhere by the docks. The notes say it’s usually pretty empty there and civilization isn’t too far, so you’ll make it,” Liam said, reviewing everything more for something to say than to actually advise me. We’d been ready for a long time.

I’d been ready for five years.

“Yep, and I’ve got my gun and provisions for up to five days just in case,” I said, parroting the rest of the bit back to him. He gave a single nod of his head.

“You sure you don’t want something less… conspicuous?” Liam asked, with a glance to the clinical white pistol in the holster on my thigh. It was so obviously of Institute make that anybody could recognize it from a thousand paces.

“Bit late for that,” I said, a smile forming on my face as my pulse quickened with anticipation, “But don’t worry, it’ll keep me safe.”

“ _You’ll_ keep you safe, Petra,” Liam said, also smiling. His was sad, “It’s time.”

Verifying Liam’s words, a crack of lightning split from the head of the relay antenna. The room lit up electric blue as the beam charged. Liam’s face again contorted in fear of the intimidating machine. I didn’t have long.

I ran forward to give Liam another crushing hug, which he returned for a quick second before pushing me onto the platform. I squeezed in with the other escapees.

“All of you: be safe out there,” Liam said, checking that everyone was safely within the field of the beam.

“And you in here,” I said, “You’re the synths’ only hope for freedom now, Liam.”

“What, you think I should keep this up?” Liam clamored, suddenly looking truly panicked.

“You have to! Who else can?” I pleaded, “Until I come back, you’re _the man on the inside_. The group that helps us will count on you!”

Liam was silent with dread. But, as the teleporter groaned with effort and the crackling of static screamed around us, he steadied himself and nodded.

He could do it without me now.

“Make me sound cool,” he said, and I grinned maniacally as the beat of the generator reached a fevered pitch. My heart hammered in time.

“I’ll make you sound like the goddamned hero you are, Liam Binet!”

And then we were gone with a final flash of brilliant blue sparks.


	5. You Can’t Teach Soul

**A Lousy Handful of Earth**

_Chapter 5- You Can’t Teach Soul_

_“Caught Me Thinking” by Bahamas_

 

Deacon indicated he had some sensitive news for me, which was best saved for private quarters. I was expecting something of a lecture, so I let him know I’d be in my usual hidey-hole at the Hill. I always had a room reserved for me here, but for once it wasn’t due to my gross flirting with Tony Savoldi.

No, this cloistered-off room, situated high along the back wall of the compound, was always set aside for traveling members of the Railroad. I’d been an active tourist for as long as I’d been in the Commonwealth. You can’t get the kind of protection I did from the Railroad after escaping The Institute unless you gave something back. And, if Pinky had his say, he’d say I owed double what anyone else did at least.

I sunk low into the ancient mattress of the saferoom. From the state of it, it looked like it got more than its share of use nightly, but tourists rarely used this room in actuality. With Old Man Stockton running a _legit safehouse_ now in the bowels of the marketplace, there wasn’t much need for anyone else to stop in.

I unclipped my PipBoy and propped it up on the sad little nightstand, barely more than kindling holding a roughly hewn slab of metal to serve as the actual tabletop. I put on Diamond City Radio for cover and sighed as Travis stumbled his way through his canned introduction for “[The End of the World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sonLd-32ns4)” by Skeeter Davis. Deacon would probably be in in a moment; I was good to enter the room directly, but some unknown caravan hand following behind would draw some eyes.

I think he also just enjoyed entering the stealthy way more.

Sure enough, he was crawling in through the window at that moment; he was a little winded, so he probably climbed his way up. Good thing Dogmeat was still hassling people at the bar, otherwise he may well have bit my companion’s face off.

“Showoff,” I said, smirking. Deacon did a little bow in lieu of replying. He paused to listen to the melancholic song a moment before walking over and sitting beside me.

“Fitting atmosphere,” he commented. I readjusted, my back against the headboard to watch him head on, “I’ve got some bad news for you, Yoshi.” Another song started up; Travis must be taking a quick break to hyperventilate.

                _[Worry, worry, worry love is passing me by](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zc3TQhRbkrk)_

“Bad news? How could such a thing be possible in this idyllic paradise?” I quipped reactively, my heart sinking nearly into my stomach. It plummeted all the way dowm when Deacon’s sunglasses flashed as he turned away very slightly, “Oh no. Actually bad news.”

“The worst. I’m sorry, kid—”

“DeeDee, I’ve outgrown that nickname by a decade now,” I interrupted him, slightly perturbed. I hadn’t been much of a kid even when we met, but it was less patronizing to say that to a 14-year-old than someone coming up on 30.

“Yeah, sorry,” he corrected with a rare apology. Not even a snappy comeback.

Fuck. What happened?

I nudged him with my foot, trying to smile again as I steeled my nerves, “I’m primed and ready to receive this bad news.” Deacon sighed.

“Tommy’s dead,” he finally conceded. My heart stopped. Not Tommy, “A lot of people are dead.”

“No,” I said quietly, “Another hit on HQ?” Deacon nodded solemnly.

“About a month ago. Basically wiped us out. Switchboard’s gone.”

“Fuck,” I said out loud this time, sitting up straighter and grabbing a length of my brittle, sunbleached hair to worry about in my hands.

                _[Well I’m the type of guy who never settled down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0FFtht9k87k)_

“The Wanderer” by Dion started but my brain only just barely registered it, despite it being the most decent song Diamond City Radio played.

“Why didn’t any of you fucks tell me?” I asked, stopping my fussing with my hair to glare at Deacon. The anger was bubbling up.

“HQ getting annihilated by The Institute isn’t usually information you just share with a tourist,” Deacon replied, sounding totally calm. I couldn’t be sure if that was him talking, or protocol. Either way, I huffed and pushed him on the arm more forcefully than when we were playing.

“We both know I’m not just a fucking tourist, asshole,” I said. I was the sister of the fucking Director of the fucking Institute. I was a fucking prewar relic, well over 200 years old chronologically speaking. I was the fucking single-most prolific settlement builder in the Commonwealth and had a ton of fucking influence because of it. And I had my own _fucking_ radio station, damn it!

“I know, Petra. You’re family,” Deacon waited a while for my mind to burn through its rage before speaking again. Hearing those words helped.

“Fucking right.”

“ _And_ ,” Deacon continued, somehow looking amused with my impetuous antics, “That’s not news you just deliver in a dead drop.” I sighed and relaxed against the headboard again.

“Yeah ok,” I relented, but then covered my face with my hands, “Jesus, not Tommy.” Deacon moved a hand over my ankle. He understood. In the absence of anger, there was now only despair.

He always understood.

“Which one you want?” he asked me, and I was suddenly 16 again and we were back in The Switchboard, in my crowded little broom closet bedroom.

“Twenty-two, please. We use morse code now. Easier,” I mumbled through my hands as the tears started. Deacon seemed to get what I was saying, reaching over to my PipBoy to send out the message and then tuning in to PTRA Radio.

The static was building up in my ears, so I didn’t hear Randy’s introduction to the song. But as the first notes started to filter through, the buzzing dissipated.

                _[Back when we started, before we parted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShqCkUPeOSQ)_

_I would wonder what would make her stay_

_What was I thinking_

_As if my drinking was the only thing that drove her away_

_Was it ambition? Or war of attrition?_

_Honey, you could always take it out_

_Now I know beyond the shadow of a doubt it’s my fault_

“It’s not your fault, Petra,” Deacon said over the chorus, grip tightening on my ankle, “The bastards always come.”

“I know.”

                _I’d share my feelings, you’d hit the ceiling_

_I couldn’t shake it if I tried_

“But I feel like he does this to punish me.”

                _You were my lover, only to discover something inside me had died_

_Was it ambition? Or war of attrition?_

_Honey, you could always take it out_

“He hurts my friends to hurt me, so it feels like…”

                _It’s my fault_

“Emmy, The Institute always came for us, even before you got out,” Deacon reasoned as my tears slipped past the barricade of my hands, dripping from my chin and dampening the fibers of my new jacket.

I removed my useless hands and stared up into the ceiling, rotting wood and sheet metal all mashed together. A few more tears leaked out of my eyes; just a few.

“Shit,” I said simply, releasing it like a breath. The song ended and, without further input from me, Randy’s set continued again. He’d been playing a lot of Mumm-Ra recently; I’d have to remind him to vary it up a bit.

We were quiet, looking in opposite directions. We got each other, but only because it didn’t involve words. We were both feeling like words were appropriate here, but neither of us knew what the fuck they were.

Usually the music did it for us.

But, somehow, I didn’t have anything in my rotation that could say “I lost one of my best friends and the thought of losing you too would fucking kill me” for the both of us.

“I’ve been gone too long,” I finally said, tilting my chin down to face Deacon.

“It’s never too long,” Deacon said with one of his tiny smiles. The genuine one.

“You sound confident in that.”

“There’s always more shit to shoot in the Commonwealth.”

Well that much was always true, at least. Wait.

“Fuck, and I’ve got just the way to get back in the groove,” I said, suddenly remembering the entire reason I’d come down to this pit.

Deacon was right: behind all the depressing loss of friends and cheap, room-temperature whiskey there were always bad people queuing for a bullet in the head.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, clearing out Zeller’s Army was so ridiculously easy for the three of us that I realized I could have done it without Deacon all along. But it wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.

As it was, we went in guns blazing and radio blaring. Not Deacon’s style at all, and not usually mine either to be honest, but even he couldn’t deny the manic kind of joy one gets from blowing raiders away in time to the beat of “[Back in School](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fOm7aWCC2U)” by Mother Mother. He’d insisted on the song, give our target’s base of choice.

There was something grim about that kind of humor, but that basically went without saying when it came to Deacon.

We’d mowed down Zeller’s underlings in about fifteen minutes, which I felt constituted some kind of record. But when Randy came over the waves to beg me to let him change the song, lest the Commonwealth’s settlements all rise up and riot, I begrudgingly let him switch up the order again.

“Apparently the fifth time’s the final straw for our listeners,” I laughed quietly as we slunk around the upper level of the school halls. Zeller had abandoned his flunkies to hide from us somewhere up here. Dogmeat was currently tracking his scent ahead of us.

“Some people just don’t know how to appreciate good music: on repeat endlessly for the sake of a joke,” Deacon replied, grinning at me. So, he had missed this too.

“To be fair, my settlers aren’t in on that,” I said diplomatically.

“You can get them _clean water_ but not _telepathy_?” Deacon said, tsking at me, “So even your powers have limits. Amateur.”

“See, I knew you were watching me!”

“Pfft. I have _people_ for that, Imi. I _am_ an _agent_ after all,” he said, affecting a tone to imply the inferior status of a tourist.

“Shut up,” I said affectionately, pushing the brim of his Stetson down over his face. We hushed and rounded a corner into a large room full of metal cages. It looked like it had originally been multiple classrooms, but the interior walls had crumbled into little more than plaster dust and dry-rotted wooden studs. A small gasp sounded from the cage closest to us.

“You’re not one of them! Oh thank goodness, have you come to rescue us?”

Deacon and I hurried over to the captured caravan hand as Dogmeat scouted the rest of the room for any hidden enemies. It seemed pretty quiet, however.

“Kessler didn’t mention hostages,” I said gravely, pulling bobby pins from a pouch on my belt. Deacon and I exchanged a glance.

Had we known innocent people were involved, we wouldn’t have been so flippant about dealing with the raiders. It was honestly amazing these people hadn’t been killed once Zeller knew we were here.

“But you are here to get us out? They took three of us,” the woman clasped her hands together, shaking all over.

“Yes, absolutely. I’m sorry, if I’d known you were here I’d have come sooner,” I said, already picking the lock on her cage and sending Deacon over to the next.

We freed all three of the hostages, arming them with some pipe pistols I’d looted off the raiders to dismantle for screws. It went without saying that they needed protection more than my settlers needed another chair or jukebox. We offered to escort them back to the Hill, but they assured Deacon and I they could manage.

We waited a minute for them to depart before kicking in Zeller’s door. And then kicking in his teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

An hour or so later and our crew was reentering the Hill. It was midday, so I found Kessler tending to that same stalk of corn like it was her sole mayoral duty. I chucked Zeller’s helmet, complete with his dismembered head still inside for extra flair, into the dirt in front of her. A plume of dust billowed into her face, making me rather pleased.

She deserved much worse.

“I took care of your raider problem for you. Use my bounty money to hire some _legit_ guards for your goddamn people,” I spat, “And I swear to Atom, if I hear _anything_ else about the Hill doing business with raiders instead of just fucking killing them like you’re supposed to, I will steal _every single caravan contract_ out from under you. A couple of words is all it’ll take to show them how an actual _human_ treats their hands.”

“And remember we’re watching,” Deacon added in an undertone, tapping the Geiger counter on my PipBoy to indicate the Railroad’s callsign. Kessler was silent and looked very nearly ready to snap at me, but buried it and nodded curtly.

“Noted.”

We turned to leave when I remembered a bit of business I still had to clear up.

“Trash Can Carla is going to start doing business here now that I’ve set you on the good and righteous path,” I told Kessler, pointing a finger at her in a way akin to how my Sunday school nuns used to scold me for taking the lord’s name in vain.

“Ok,” Kessler said, looking at my finger disapprovingly.

“I want her to have a stall in the marketplace. Her _own_ stall, not one of those shared ones. And her own apartment in the block with the other traders. With a nice bed, she has a bad back,” I listed off any order that came to mind because I knew that Kessler knew I’d make good on my promise to scream to the world she hadn’t prioritized the safety of her workers. I could basically ask for whatever I wanted.

And what I wanted was Carla to have a safe job to settle into during her dotage. I wouldn’t be taking over the company after all.

I was rejoining the Railroad and taking down The Institute; just like I’d told Liam I would. It was just taking longer than I had promised.

Deacon put a hand on my shoulder to steer me away. The gates to the Hill closing behind us as we left was as much of a middle finger Kessler would dare give us. Once we were far enough away, Deacon burst into a peal of elated laughter.

“Holy shit, the look on her face when you threatened to squeal on her!” Deacon yelled, holding his gut as he laughed even harder. Dogmeat didn’t really understand, but hopped excitedly around us and yipped happily, “Man, am I a good teacher _or what_.”

“DeeDee, you’re the _best_ teacher,” I smiled, laughing as well, only realizing until after I said it that I’d reaffirmed his assertion from when we’d shared a cigarette back on the Hill. To distract him from my slip, I grabbed the cowboy hat right off his bald head to place it on my own instead. By the time I’d finished adjusting it, he’d already whipped another out from his pack to replace the one I’d stolen.

“Well now we just look ridiculous,” I said. Deacon laid an arm over my shoulder to direct me toward the new location for HQ, which he’d said wasn’t far.

“Come on Yoshimi, let’s go get you deputized,” he said, earning another chuckle.

“Sure thing, partner,” I said before faltering and using Deacon’s distraction at his own brilliant repertoire to pull him in for a hug. I was a little surprised he returned it, “I’ve missed you, Deacon. I’m sorry I ran away, I won’t do it again.”

“I missed you too, Petra,” Deacon said, voice low and genuine, “And don’t worry, I won’t let you run this time unless you really need to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any errors. Haven't had time to edit yet and I super needed to go to bed like 2 hours ago
> 
> Also check out my tumblr, where I post stupid supplementary material for these stories. Petra has my all-time favorite design, so I be uploading her concept image probs tomorrow.  
> https://alien-ariel7.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks!


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